And all of this highlights the kind of writer Nabokov is: one whose greatest fault, in his early work, is that he hasn't become Nabokov enough for us yet. On its own terms, The Defense is serviceable: it is stuffed with detail, a strong sense of structure underlies the arrangement of its chapters, its plot runs cleanly and never allows us to fall off of its board of possible moves. But in terms of Nabokov's own avowed aesthetic and preferences for as little reliance on reader sympathy as possible in a good book, The Defense fails: it invites reader sympathy without rebuffing it, forcing the book to work only on its own terms.
In short, this is a Nabokov who has not yet earned the luxury of despising his reviewers: this is a Nabokov whose defense is, however beautiful at times, as yet incomplete.
In short, this is a Nabokov who has not yet earned the luxury of despising his reviewers: this is a Nabokov whose defense is, however beautiful at times, as yet incomplete.
